The Persian's Narrative 1949
by dangerousdame
Summary: A film noir retelling of the story.  The ghost wasn't playing games anymore.
1. The Persian

They found Joey Buquet with his neck snapped, lying backstage under one of the curtains. It was a neat job- efficient, clean, most likely done without much pain to the poor unfortunate Joey. If you were cold-blooded enough, you could almost admire the skill it must have taken.

Suicide was everyone's first thought. Although Joey didn't have any real reason to kill himself, he didn't really have a reason to live, either. An aged bachelor, living in a crowded tenement building, supporting himself by pulling ropes at a burlesque show and trying to scare the chorus girls. And if I hadn't had a friend with an interest in quick, artful deaths, that's what I also might have thought.

My name is Johnny Ledoux. I'm known as The Persian in certain circles because of my mother's ancestry. It's a nickname I picked up back in the war- it might be meant as an insult, but theater never taken it as one.

I'm a private detective, or at least I used to be. Mrs. Giry, the theater's choreographer and a woman of some influence, got me hired to act as the security after some nasty incidents with the local mob types. I agreed for reasons of my own, which will eventually become clear. My official statement on Joey's death was suicide, and that was good enough for her.

Mrs. Giry's a nice old girl, and I don't mind working for her. The theater's managers control the financial aspects, and let her make most of the artistic decisions. Her rules for me were that I always appear respectable and sober, keep a sharp lookout for troublemakers, and keep my hands off her daughter. She eventually dropped the last rule, after it became clear that her daughter had no intention of keeping it.

The chorus girls say the place is haunted. I believe them. What's more, I happen to know who's haunting it. But so far, he hasn't caused too much trouble, other then an occasional demand for money, which I usually end up paying. It's generally best not to let the managers know about the demands, since they just got out of paying protection money to the Guildicci family by giving one of their daughters a place in the show. She has a good voice, so it wasn't much of a compromise.

And if the Guildicci girl hadn't gotten sick the night of the show, and Christine never taken her place, maybe things would have stayed the same. Unpredictable, but reasonably safe.

But I'm getting ahead of myself here. I should probably start on the night of December the fourth, 1943, when I first met the man who would become the Ghost.


	2. The Rosy Hours of Manderzen

_A/N: I'm sure there are historical inaccuracies in this chapter. I apologize, but if ALW can do it, so can I._

It was back during the war, when the company I was in came upon Manderzen. It was a camp, but not the sort the krauts were famous for building. Officially, it didn't exist. And the poor bastards locked inside weren't Jews or commies or homosexuals or any of the other things that would qualify you for extermination under Nazi law. It contained brilliant madmen. Psychos whom the Germans hoped to get some good use out of before killing.

And that's where I found Erik. He was being used as an architect, and also sang to entertain visiting officers. I found him in a cellar, scratching out a few lines of something on a piece of paper. I fired a warning shot by way of introduction, and when he turned around to face me, that's when I realized he was a prisoner.

It wasn't the fact that if he turned sideways he would disappear. It wasn't the additional fact that he was a dead ringer for the "living corpse" from _The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari_. It was his face.

"Tests?", I asked him.

He was silent. I tried again, in French.

"Medical testing? Is that what happened to you?"

He whispered, in a voice that seemed to be coming from another man altogether.

"Some of it. But I was always ugly."

………………….

When we had rounded up all the guards and prisoners, my commanding officers took a look at Erik's file. I wasn't high enough in rank to view them myself, but apparently they conveyed the shocking news that our glamour-boy friend was dangerous. I sometimes wonder how bad it must have been to convince them that it wasn't safe to have him alive. Then again, I never did think very highly of my superiors.

They thought I killed him, just like they ordered me to, and they'll keep on thinking that. The piles of mutilated corpses were high enough that one more or less wouldn't be noticed. I had proven my loyalty countless times- in fact, the reason I had been assigned to the hit was that they felt an "animal" like me would be less likely to feel squeamish.

If I'd had any brains in my head, I would have done as they told me. As it was, one false move of charity on my part led to more trouble then I could have possibly imagined.


	3. Onstage and Backstage

By the time this narrative actually took place, I'd been thinking a lot about that cold December night when I had tried to play the hero. They say that no good deed goes unpunished, and I'd be willing to swear to it in court. But nevertheless, it was because of that night that I had gotten where I was, which really isn't saying much. Security for a semi-respectable music hall pays the bills, but I wouldn't have taken the job if Erik hadn't been haunting the theater.

The chorus girls were right about that. Erik had taken up residence underneath the theater, and periodically would pop out and frighten people. Harmless, wouldn't you say? Except that I remembered his history, and so I always tried to make sure that he wasn't unnecessarily provoked.

I'm still trying to figure out how he managed to make all of his secret hideouts. My guess is that, as someone skilled in architecture, he had a hand in the building of the music hall in the first place. But it's just a theory.

Our regular star was Carlotta Guildici, daughter of one of the city's mid-level mobsters. She's pretty, if you like brunettes (I'm personally a man of all tastes), and as mentioned before, she can carry a tune. She was fairly popular among the regulars, but on the night she got sick, her understudy stole every fan she had.

Christine Daee was one of those chilly blondes with eyes that could indicate either intelligence or extreme foolishness. More innocent then most of the girls here, her act wasn't just the usual flash of leg combined with a melody. The kicker was, this girl could really sing. If you closed your eyes and just listened to her voice, you could imagine that you were in a sophisticated Opera House instead of the Popular Theater and Music Hall.

I wouldn't say that I was blown away, but I was very impressed. After the show, when I went to see my girlfriend backstage, I asked her how Christine had managed to hide from everyone for so long.

"Beats me", Meg said. "All I know is, at the beginning of the year, she couldn't have sung if her life depended on it."

Meg is the influential choreographers daughter I mentioned a few chapters ago. She's dark and olive-skinned and smart. She's also twenty years old. I feel like a heel, but she was the one who came on to me.

"Any sign of the ghost?", I asked her.

"Well, some of the girls are saying that he's the one who killed Joey Buquet. Don't know if I believe it or not. Other then that, it's been pretty quiet lately."

After exchanging pleasantries for a while longer, I got out of her dressing room and nearly crashed into a swing kid coming my way.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I was just trying to get to Miss Daee's room."

I gave him what I like to think of as an intimidating glance, but is referred to by some as the Persian's Evil Eye. The swing kid shifted uncomfortably.

"Um, well, I guess I'll just be going then."

I tipped my hat and let him pass me by. I walked outside into the streets of Manhattan- the girls' dressing rooms were getting a little too crowded for my taste.


	4. Carlotta

I still technically have an office, even if I don't take too many clients anymore. My business mail still comes there, along with my paycheck and the vengeful husbands of former clients. I keep it mostly in case my security job falls through, so I'll have something to go back on.

But when I stopped by the next afternoon to collect my bills, I saw a client I couldn't very well refuse. She was a tall brunette wrapped in head to toe mink, with a bamboo cigarette holder containing the smoldering stub of a European cigarette.

"You'll ruin your voice like that", I said as I let Carlotta into my office. She shrugged.

"Well, the theater always has my understudy."

"Carlotta", I said, "It's not that I don't like to see you. But what the hell are you doing here?"

She flicked her stub into my ashtray, the trail of smoke issuing from it almost veiling her face.

"You were there last night. My understudy, the Swede- is she any good?"

I shrugged after pretending to think about it.

"She's pretty good. She's not going to be the next Lena Horne, but the girl can sing. So what? You're feeling better now, you'll get your spotlight, and she'll go back to the chorus line. All will be right with the world."

"Oh really, Persian? Is that what you think?"

I waited for the axe to fall. I know I'm in trouble when people start to call me "Persian".

"I've been wrong before. Care to enlighten me?"

Carlotta seemed to lose a bit of her composure. She fumbled for her purse, and brought out a letter, crumpled and worn as if it had been read over many times. She dropped it on my desk, avoiding my eyes. My curiosity was whetted, and I picked up the letter:

_Dear Madame: I am afraid that your moment in the spotlight is coming to an end. I would strongly advise against maintaining your starring role, unless you do not value your safety, as well as that of the rest of the music hall. Humbly, The Ghost._

I groaned and rubbed my forehead. This was the last thing I needed.

Well, actually it was the second to last. When my phone rang, a few seconds later, I found out even more.

"Johnny", Meg said when I answered, "you've gotta get down here. Everyone's in a panic. Christine- you know, the understudy? Well, she's vanished."

I sighed. Just what I needed right now.

"I'll be down there in a little while."

I hung up the phone and turned to Carlotta.

"You want my advice? Just don't do it. Find another job, somewhere safer."

Carlotta began to respond, but I was out of the door before she finished.


End file.
